A Tide of Destruction
by KERNTKitty
Summary: My tribute to the tsunami disaster and to 9-11-01. The pain of such a catastrophe envelopes the whole world, and no one is ever the same again.


**This is my tribute to the tsunami disaster and the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01. Please, no flames, because this piece really means a lot to me.**

When do we uncover the truth in ourselves? When do we expose our frailties, how truly helpless we are? When do we find the strength in those we thought weak, the weakness in those we thought strong? When the sea takes innumerable lives in the space of moments. When something we thought could never happen takes place- and all we can do is mourn and weep and try to move on. Do we feel guilty, those of us who suffered no damage to ourselves and our dear ones? We cannot hope to understand the pain of those who have lost and those who were lost. All powers are helpless in the face of such unutterable horror and despair.

As I walk through debris caused by the catastrophe that hit but a short time ago, what I see shakes me like little I have seen before this. Frightened, weeping faces, both humans and the firstborn, all differences counting for naught alongside the horror of what has just happened. But these shocked, grieving people are not the worst of it. What can be labeled as the worst, truly? Is it not all immeasurably painful? But what tears at my soul is the sight of the bodies. Old ones, wives, husbands- and children.

The children. If anything can be labeled as the worst, most horrid part of this destruction, it is the deaths of the children. We the firstborn hold children as sacred. So pure, so unwearied by the unending chafing of time. Whether firstborn or second, they are innocent, having been spared, for a time, the hardships and dangers of the world. But no longer. The bodies of the children, pulled from detritus or found drowned on the sands, are the capstone on a monument to sorrow, fear, and despair. The sight of their faces, so still, so innocent, so deathly, rends the heart. The other deaths cause tears, but not like those of the children, the future of our world.

How is it right that the child dies, while the parents survive? I cannot tell who it is worse for, the children, having died before their time, or the mothers and fathers, dealing with the grief. The sound of mothers' wails fill my ears as I walk along the sands, the fathers' sobs echo. And everywhere I go, the grief-stricken, disbelieving faces look up at me, and they seem to say that it is my fault. What have I done? The mortals look at me in fear. Those who never trusted me mutter past their tears. "Look what he's brought upon us. They're wicked." They think that I and my people caused this? I would have given anything to spare Eä what I see now, what has come to pass. My foresight was blurred in this. Could it be that even my foresight could not grasp such a horrendous tragedy?

Others that I pass reach out their hands to me, calling for my aid, for any form of help. I do what I can, even if that is only a few brief words of comfort or a prayer to the Valar. Some, even those of my own people, say the words that cut deepest. "Where were you? Why did you not stop it?" How can I tell them that, for all my powers, I never could have seen this coming, never could have done a thing to stop it, even if I had known? They believe that I am greater than I am. Perhaps that is what I thought, before this. I was lofty in my position, I believed that the world was mine to own, that I could do anything or remedy anything. This has taught me just how wrong I am, but they do not see it, not yet.

"Mama?" The sound catches my ears, and I turn to see where it came from. A tiny mortal child, likely no more than five years of age, is kneeling next to the still body of a woman. "Mama? Wake up!" He does not know. He cannot see. "Mama, I'm scared, wake up." He cannot tell that his mother will never comfort him again. How can I tell him? I kneel beside him and take his arm, but he pulls away. "Leave me alone, I have to wake Mama!"

I shake my head and get up, wiping the tears that I had not know were there from my cheeks. I have not the strength to speak the words that need to be said. My soul weeps for him, and for all the others. His pleas to his mother's eternally deaf ears follow me. Is it any more right for the children to live when the parents do not? Perhaps it is worse, that orphans are left to wallow in their despair.

There are many here, searching through rubble and through sand, looking for any survivors. Some have come that I expected would. Galadriel, Celeborn, Haldir, and a large number of the people of the Golden Wood. I had always thought that I would laugh if I saw Galadriel with mud on her face, but now her dress is muddy, her face is smeared with sand, dirt, and tears, and I have never witnessed such raw emotion, such sorrow, in those all-seeing eyes. And I weep. Celeborn, always dignified and noble, bending his back alongside human villagers and peasants to move rubble off of injured people. Haldir, ever stern and emotionless, with tears running unchecked down his face as he carries the bodies out of the rubble. He seems to be memorizing every lifeless face.

Thranduil of the Mirkwood, his son Legolas, and a great number of Wood Elves. The fair-haired prince is kneeling by children, having the strength to do what I did not. I hear his words faintly. "Child, come with me. We will care for your father." His voice is choked, but the child breaks away from her father's body and lets the prince carry her away. Moments later, Haldir lifts the father's body and carries it to where the rest are laid. That little girl will likely never see her father again. Thranduil is helping to tend the wounded, and tears are running down his face as well. Is there anyone that does not weep?

As I come upon a place where small, sturdy hands heft rubble and lift bodies, I realize that at such a catastrophic event as this, all differences are put aside. Here does a near army of Dwarves toil beside the tall forms of Elves. Their hooded, bearded faces are grimy and wet with tears, their eyes shine with sadness though there are none of their own dead here. When this is past, will they remember this moment of peace? Will they remember the touch, this taste of harmony, and will it grow to surpass only this time? There is no way to tell until it is over.

Estel, my foster-son, is working as fervently as the rest, possibly more so. The emotions in his eyes fight a war. It is this land that he has the right to rule. How much pain it must cause him to see his land in such a state, even if he denies his claim to it. My sons Elrohir and Elladan, stern and grim, speak what words of comfort they can find, and pass out food to survivors and workers. Arwen, my beloved daughter, seems so lost. Ever with an open, merciful heart, she is overwhelmed, as are we all, by this destruction. Her beauty draws eyes, and she has soon gathered a circle of followers. They are children, with torn clothes and weary, hopeless eyes. She cradles an infant and holds a toddler on her knee. The older ones sit at her feet. I can hear her telling stories, even through her tears and shock.

How can we ever come through this? There are some things that snatch away words to describe them, some things that leave the witness open-mouthed in shock. There are some things that burn a mark onto your heart that can never be rubbed out, that will never heal. We ask how Ulmo could do such a thing, how Manwë could allow it and Ilúvatar give it leave to happen. Do they not care for us? But as I look out on the sea, so calm now after such a horrid, terrorizing thing, I realize in my heart that the Valar are merciful every day. Every day they keep us from being wiped away, every day they hold back their hand. So easily could we be destroyed, and yet it does not happen. For the Valar and Ilúvatar love us, and would not cause us pain. There is only one who could cause the deaths of so many, so many men, women, and children. Oh, the children.

Morgoth. Surely there is no other who could inflict such pain, surely this is his doing. Does he think that such a blow will cripple us, will cause us to fall so that he may rule our fair world as he wishes? I smile bitterly as I survey the devastated area. Dwarves working with Elves. Elves working with humans. And humans working with one another in peace. A sound catches my ear. A song. A woman sings a song, not of mourning, but of encouragement. A small child smiles at Arwen's tale. An injured man wakes from unconsciousness. And there is hope. We are strong, we will not be defeated by a wicked effort. We stand on a firm stone of hope. We have been shaken, but we will not fall. A new day will come. We will never be the same, we will never forget. And there is hope.

**I would really appreciate reviews!**


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